Current Show by Perumal Murugan

Author:Perumal Murugan [Murugan, Perumal]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9789386495136
Publisher: Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Published: 2017-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

9

The dice show nothing

The cycles are everywhere. Parked in hurried zigzag rows against the theatre wall and away from it in a wide, messy arc. From a distance, they look like the gnarled roots of an ageing tree. Between the first two rows sits a group of figures, gambling. Their heads are bent down to the game, only their shirts visible. Heads bob, squatting figures jump back and forth in excitement. Now and then, loud laughter cuts through the rows of bicycles.

An old woman passes the cot-shop outside the theatre and walks towards the cycle stand. She cradles a covered vessel in her hands. Her body is a curved hump and it is as if she is crawling rather than walking. She squints about her and finally finds what she wants. Natesan’s face, mixed up with the cycles.

The old woman stops. She has to walk between the rows to get to Natesan. But which one?

She is uncertain. She must be quiet, she knows that. If Natesan sees her before she gets to him, he’ll be angry, raise his voice, even a hand. She holds on to the cycles and creeps her way towards Natesan. She nears the gamblers.

—Five, I’ve rolled a five!

—Come on, put down fifty paise.

—Fuck! It’s a two. Gone!

—Where’s my one rupee?

Only two people are actually playing. The others are there to watch and bet on their favourite of the moment. The dice are cast on a mangled piece of rat-chewed cardboard. The goddess of victory smirks and stands by the man who rolls the largest number.

Singaan plays a weaver boy from Aravur. Sathi has a bet on. Fifty paise in favour of Singaan.

Natesan is not part of the gambling group. He is still busy with his cycles. He walks up and down, counting and making notes on a piece of paper. He has to account for all the small change in his bag. He will be busy for a while.

He sees the old woman and ducks between the rows.

—Natesu, aiy, Natesu . . . Her voice is thin.

When Natesan sees her walking towards the gamblers, he calls out to her.

—Grandmother, here!

Her shrunken eyes widen and she looks in the direction of the voice. She sees a blur. Natesan hangs his change bag on the handlebar of a cycle and walks up to her. He grabs the vessel from her hands. Surprised by the action, she stumbles. But she manages to steady herself and does not fall.

—Dirty dog! Grabbing like that! Always hurting me . . . rascal!

Natesan sits between the rows and opens the vessel. The old woman huddles into the shadow cast by the parked cycles. There is rice and thin tamarind gruel. The gruel is oily, flecked with bits of onion and coriander leaves. Natesan holds the vessel to his face and drinks up the gruel hungrily. A mess of rice, spiced with dregs of gruel sits at the bottom.

—You call this food? Tastes like sewage.

—You get what you deserve. Do you bring home chests of money?

The old woman chews her words and spits them out.

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